When I landed in Granada, Spain, to study abroad for the semester, it was raining. Pouring, to be exact. And pitch black out.
And reader, it stayed that way for 25 days straight.
Of course, all of last semester I had a dazzling vision of my days in Spain: I’d bask in the sun in between easy classes, go out for tapas every single night in one of the millions of going-out tops I packed and wake to the idyllic sounds of birds chirping at my window as a busker plays the Spanish guitar somewhere on a distant street.
Instead, my first month here consisted of mornings waking up in the cold, dragging myself through the almost one-mile walk to class in the dark, wading through puddles, shielded from the rain by only my tattered cow-print umbrella and a little bit of spite. Most days, I yearned to lie on the grass in Tava, soaking in the ever-so-often sunny February days in Colorado.
I wondered: had I royally messed up by being here? Would I regret missing the Cheyenne Mountain Boulevard Target runs and the afternoon trips to the climbing gym that carry on without me?
We’re all lucky the sun came out before my deadline for this article, or this could have been a very different story. But I’m pleased to say I have zero regrets.
Reflecting on those moments of freezing rain, I’ve realized that the magic of Spain really was slowly introducing itself to me all along. It is in the way that every stranger within a 50-foot radius jumps to help the old woman struggling to lift her walker on the cobblestone streets. And the way the man at the cafe down the street from my apartment lets me practice my Spanish every morning, even though he speaks fluent English and I don’t know the word for “almond” when he asks which type of croissant I want.
Mostly, it is in the way that I am (ever so slowly) learning to slow down.
Here, I eat my meals more slowly. Walk at a slower pace (mostly because the sidewalks are so skinny that if I try to pass someone, I could get hit by a car). Drink slower. Talk slower. And for the first two weeks, it made me feel like I needed to crawl out of my own skin.
Anyone who has been around me for more than five minutes knows I’m accustomed to moving quickly: I jump from task to task frantically in an attempt to knock out everything on my to-do list, only for the to-do list to perpetually keep growing. I listen to podcasts at 1.5 speed. I can’t stand slow walkers.
In a way, the Block Plan encourages this. Maybe that’s why I gravitated towards it in the first place. The Block Plan, most of the time, means living life at 1.5 speed. I’m constantly cramming new information into my head, writing an essay that should take weeks in two hours and trying to cook for myself, exercise and do the dishes at the same time. This is where I thrive.
What appeals to me most about this semester now isn’t the idea of tanning on Spanish roofs or going out for drinks with hot Spanish guys. Really, it’s just taking baby steps towards becoming more comfortable with the slowness of it all.
Here, I snooze my alarm a few more times than usual. I spend afternoons lying on the roof of my building listening to full albums in order. I spend an extra 45 minutes at the dinner table with friends, chatting long after our plates are cleared. I look up when I walk to class and notice when the graffiti on the plaster walls changes.
Sooner than I realize, the Block Plan will beckon me back to Colorado Springs, which I do miss so dearly. I hope more than anything that the part of Granada that I take back with me is the desire for an occasional wasted afternoon and the gentle pressing reminder that there is so much time left to do everything on the list.